


The Wrong Business

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Phil/Clint This is Fear Universe [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Betrayal, Clint's not a good guy, Human Trafficking, M/M, Mutant Registration, Mutant Registration Act, Nick Fury is a lying liar who lies, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Phil's rethinking his life choices, Political Intrigue, Sokovia Accords, TRUST NO ONE, alternative universe, plots within plots, the good the bad the worse, violent death of a minor character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 17:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18481267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: Part 4 in the "This is Fear" seriesClint chases down Bullseye after the events of "To Build a Better World" and finds himself in a world of trouble when he goes looking for more information. The more he digs down to find the truth, the deeper the rabbit hole goes. Who's lying to who, and how is Clint going to get out of this one?Or, Phil takes the limits off his powers and decides which side of the fence he's on.





	The Wrong Business

**Author's Note:**

> The story thus far:
> 
> Phil Coulson, aka Grey Force, is a registered superhero who works for S.H.I.E.L.D.; by day he's a college history professor. When Clint Barton the mystery writer careens into his life, Phil finds out that Clint is Ronin, a super who refused to sign the accords and is living in the shadows. Clint leaves Phil a disc full of dangerous information that Phil could use in his research. Then Clint helps Captain America free the Hulk from the Raft, and Phil realizes that (1) Clint's also Hawkeye and (2) S.H.I.E.L.D. has been experimenting on prisoners. They join forces to save Betty Ross from the Abomination. Afterward, Alexander Pierce, the head of S.H.I.E.L.D. sends Phil to interview Wilson Fisk who claims to have information they need; Phil is kidnapped, freed by Hawkeye, and together they thwart an assassination attempt on Fisk to get the information first.

“You think you’ve got this figured out?”  Bullseye spat a glob of blood onto the cracked concrete floor, rivulets of red running down his chin and spilling onto his t-shirt. “You don’t know shit, Hawkass.  Not one Goddamn grain of truth.” 

 

Bowstring vibrated in his fingers, arrow notched and pulled taut, razor-sharp head aimed at the bastard’s heart. 

 

“Not going to talk your way out of this; you’ve hurt too many innocent people.” 

 

He sighted along the shaft and exhaled. 

 

“Damn it, if you kill me you’ll never know the truth!”  Rattling the chains that locked him in place, Bullseye’s eyes widened and his voice grew more strident. “Pierce didn’t hire me, you idiot. There’s more going on …” 

 

The arrow flew true, driving through flesh easily, and wavering as the head exited through the back, sinking into the concrete wall.  One last breath rattled out of Bullseye’s chest and his chin dropped, death coming swiftly for him. 

 

“Tell me another, asshole.”  Clint lowered his bow. “As if I’d believe anything that came out of your mouth.”  

 

A cold wind whistled in through a cracked pane of glass, stirring leaves and other debris that blew through the abandoned lab.  A fitting place to end a sad and violent life; what once had been a government facility, filled with thinkers and scientists making history, now empty and lifeless, a shell with nothing inside.  Clint couldn’t work up the least bit of remorse for the villain’s end; he felt only relief for the future victims whose lives had been saved. 

 

Still, he searched through Bullseye’s meager belongings, one knapsack and a couple of Walmart bags filled with dirty clothes and a 500 count box of toothpicks.  He pocketed the two different phones, cut the seams to find a USB drive along with a couple of thousand dollars in cash. With a hand-held scanner, he checked the body for implants (none) and invisible tattoo (one bar code that he saved and then sliced through to eradicate it). Guys like Bullseye kept their secrets buried deep; Clint doubted decoding any of the information would be simple. 

 

Unscrewing the shaft, he withdrew the arrow then dug the head out of the wall, taking the time to lay the body out flat, crossing his arms over his chest.  He wasn’t much of a religious guy, but superstition ran rampant in the circus, and Cint had picked up his fair share of it. So he put a shiny penny on each eye after he closed it and drew Bullseye’s St. Jude medal out from under his shirt, tucking into the palm of one of his hands. Better safe than sorry, he always said, and who but the saint of lost causes would care about the likes of Bullseye and Hawkeye?  

 

After he’d scrubbed the scene of any hint of his presence, he took the roundabout path back to where he parked the battered truck he was driving.  Tossing his mask into a black duffle, he made quick work of changing, becoming a nondescript guy in jeans and a flannel shirt, just another hunter with a gun rack and a cooler of beer. John Deere hat tilted back, shooting glasses tucked on the brim, he drove into Oak Ridge, stopped at the Git Go Market to fill up on gas and grab a sandwich, then jumped on Highway 95 and headed for I-75.  Only once he was past the Lafollette exit, driving over Jellico mountain, did he tap his comm and make a call. 

 

She answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?” 

 

“Hola, chicka! Long time no see!” He dropped his vocal register and slid into a Juarez accent.  “What you been up to?” 

 

“What?” she asked, sleep making her voice scratchy.  “Who is this?” 

 

“Pablo? Pablo Jiménez? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten Mazatlan? Pina Coladas, body surfing, skinny dipping…”  Clint watched the readout, checking for any traces someone might start a trace. “And Vegas? I mean, I know what stays in Vegas and all, but, damn, that’s burned in my brain, babe.” 

 

“Pablo. Jesus, what time is it?  I must have dozed off; haven’t even had dinner yet.”  Ruffling of clothes, footsteps, the sound of water running.  “Wow, what a surprise. I thought you were … Atlanta? Or was it Ottawa?” 

 

“Hotlalanta, yeah, been there, done that. Then up to Gatlinburg after those fires. Lots of work to be had, you know, rebuilding all those homes.  Terrible thing.” Nothing yet, no pings at all. “Now I’m heading up to ChiTown, gonna be stopping to see my cousin’s new babies, twin girls, can you imagine?  Passing right through Cinci and thought, hey, Pablo, call that amazing girl and see if she’s up for a weekend of fun. I’m flush from the last job, got some time on my hands … do a little dancing, some drinking, maybe some fucking …” 

 

She chuckled and, God, Clint remembered that sound, the breathy little note when she was about to get aroused. One of the good memories he clung to when he was being too hard on himself for blowing it all to hell.  

 

“That sounds … perfect, honestly.  Work’s been insane and I’m flat out exhausted.  Not sure I can get much more than a night or two …” 

 

“Yeah, no problem, eh?  I need to be up North by Tuesday, so a day or two works for me.”  He carefully chose each word. “I’m driving now, tomorrow too soon?  I can make it the day after or whatever.” 

 

“Tomorrow, say five p.m.  I can be home by then; if I switch with Johnson, I can get off until Sunday early shift.”  

 

Stressed, that how she sounded.  Wound tight and ready to snap. He knew the warning signs.  

 

“Five then.  Shoot me your address and I’ll be there, chicka.  We’ll forget everything for twenty-four hours, okay?” 

 

“You still good with your hands, Pablo?”  she asked. 

 

“Oh, babe, better than ever.”  He grinned at her long sigh. 

 

“I’ll see you then.” 

 

He hung up and stopped the program. No tracer on her phone; whatever she was up to, no one was listening in on her calls. Maybe Clint’s luck was holding and she could help him get what he needed with a minimum muss and fuss.  

 

Yeah, probably not. Bobbi Morse was his ex-wife after all. 

 

* * *

 

 

The bar wasn’t his kind of place -- Clint preferred a good pub with football on the TV and lots of beer on tap -- but that was the point.  Neon lights, curtains of silver beads, a techno beat, and glow-in-the-dark shots fit with the young singles who crowded around the bar and filled the dance floor.  Weaving through the tightly packed bodies, he found Bobbi at one of the high top tables off to one side, recognizing her by the tilt of her head and the quick rise of an eyebrow when she saw him. Her hair and eyes were dark brown, her hips curvier than when they’d parted; in a simple grey sweater and jeans, she looked every inch the data analyst she was pretended to be. But when he gave her a simple hug in greeting, she still fit perfectly in his arms. 

 

“I like the touch of grey,” was the first thing she said, her fingers brushing the hair at his temples.  “Very distinguished.” 

 

He’d grabbed a shower at the truck stop near Jellico, taking the time to use the black hair dye he’d bought at the Caryville Walmart and slather on some instant tan. The silver had been a last minute addition, tugging out a few hairs after he’d applied the bleach to make him look older.  Disguises were best when they weren’t too obvious; the real art of changing appearance was in how he carried himself, a hitch in his stride, a slight hesitation in his voice. 

 

“The years are catching up to me.”  He slid into the other seat, the table so small they practically bumped elbows.  “Going to give aging naturally a try.”

 

She smiled and gave that weird laugh she had, half-snort, half-loud exhale. “Naturally. Right.  You’re going to fight it tooth and nail.” 

 

God, there were things he really did miss about her; it was never going to work long term, but they’d had a hell-of-a-ride. “Yeah, you’re right.  But, hey, the chicks dig it.” 

 

The waitress paused to see what he wanted and he ordered a margarita with Cuervo.  

 

“It’s good to see you,” he said because it was the truth. “You’re looking good.” 

 

“I look exhausted.”  She rolled her eyes; he wished they were her natural blue. “And I’ve gained weight which I expected you to lead with; must be mellowing in your dotterage.” 

 

“I like it.”  He did; she’d been lean and hungry when they were together; now, she seemed more content, happier. “Suits you.” 

 

“Oh, brother.”  She sipped at her fruity drink. “Don’t waste that patented charm on me; got my immunity the hard way, if you remember.”  

 

“Aw, chica, I remember it all.”  He laid his phone on the table and tapped the jamming protocol; the ambient noise of the club would only aide the scrambling application.  With the dim light and the location of the table, reading their lips would be virtually impossible. “Hopefully it wasn’t all bad.” 

 

“You know it wasn’t.”  She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand and her elbow on the table. “And since we made a promise not to do the memory lane visitation shit, I assume you’re here because you want something.” 

 

“Blunt as ever; always liked that about you.”  He took the drink as the waitress swung back by. “I can do two things at once -- ask a favor and see how you’re doing.” 

 

“Un huh.”  She cocked her head and watched him take a drink.  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain New York businessman and a disgruntled employee would it? ‘Cause if you’re dragging that shit storm behind you, I’m leaving right now.”

 

“Aw, darlin’, you wound me. Would I do that?”  He winked to get her to crinkle her nose and make that face. 

 

“You are so full of shit; you’d do it in a heartbeat and not lose a minute of sleep.” She took a sip. “So it is about Fisk.  You’re into that up to your eyeballs, aren’t you? Or is this one of those red, white, and spangled crises? 

 

“Neither of the above.”  She’d hated how Clint had followed Steve into some nasty tangles, thought Captain America was too full of himself; she wasn’t wrong, but Clint made his own decisions.  No one forced him to do anything. “Just working a simple job, that’s all.” 

 

“Yeah, and you’ve got a bridge to sell me.”  She shook her head but made no move to leave.  “Fine. Keep your secrets like always. What do you need?” 

 

“For you to drop by the office and pick up that jacket you left hanging on the back of the door. An old friend is in town and you’re going take him hiking tomorrow, that trail you love that runs along the ridge.”  He sat back in his chair and tracked all her tells, the flick of her eye, flexing of her fingers, slightest tick at the corner of her mouth. He’d surprised her, and that saddened him a bit. Guess she still didn’t believe he knew his business.  For some reason, she thought he was a mess, not a world-class mercenary; it was for the best that she didn’t know he was Ronin as well as Hawkeye. 

 

She thought about asking; he could see it in the way she tried to casually shift her weight and inhaled to push the question back down.  That wasn’t how they worked; they’d agreed to stay out of each other’s business as much as possible from the very beginning. Plus, deniable plausibility was a good thing. 

 

“And here I thought you didn’t care,” she said.  “I suppose there’s an addendum? Something small and easy to carry …” 

 

He slid the pen across the table, covering it with his hand; she palmed it and dropped it in her purse.  

 

“There’s nothing there,” she warned him.  “I’m just a low-level number cruncher.” 

 

He shrugged. “Then I’ve cashed in my freebie for nothing.” 

 

They finished their drinks, talked about what their fake selves had been doing for the last few years, then left together; Clint followed her Chevy Volt as she took the interstate on-ramp and drove the 4. 6 miles to an indistinct office building in the middle of other office buildings. He waited outside as she went in, waved to the guard, and came back out with a red hooded Thinsulate parka five minutes and 23 seconds later.  While she was gone, he kept his hands where any cameras could see them, checking his very boring emails then the ten-day weather forecast, phone tilted up to catch the light. The drive back to her place took longer but was still short; the apartment complex looked like millions of others, shared doors, stairs up and down, small balconies or sliding doors to patios. He parked by the garbage dumpster and hopped out. 

 

“Am I coming up?” he asked, leaning against the trunk; he let a slow sensual smile crawl across his face.  

 

“You haven’t changed; still only half as cute as you think you are.” She rolled her eyes. “Come on.” 

 

She buzzed them in; he took the stairs two at a time because it annoyed her.  Standing on the threshold, her key halfway in the lock, she turned back and looked up at him. In the wash of the spotlight above, her eyes were almost black, her lipstick rose red. 

 

“I still owe you,” she said as she jiggled the key and the door opened.  “I’m sorry.” 

 

The tiny needle bit his skin; he slapped it away too late to stop the drug from flushing into his system. Thick arms grabbed for him from inside the apartment; his back hit the railing and he backflipped over it, planning on a solid landing on the floor below but by the time his feet hit the floor, he was light-headed and unsteady.  Two men blocked the exit, more pouring out of the other doors. He managed to land two punches before the world lost its boundaries and closed in on him. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, dude, probably best if you wake up now.”

 

Clint blinked, trying to focus; his hands were cuffed behind him and tied to a chair; he was drugged to the gills and happy he could wiggle his toes when he tried to move them. At least he had his jeans still on; he usually ended up buck-assed naked in these situations which, unfortunately, happened way too often. 

 

“Wha …?”  His tongue felt three times too big for his mouth and covered in fuzz; he coughed then tried again. “Where?” 

 

A man’s face came into his field of vision; riddles with scars and pockmarks, bald and patched with red scabs, he grinned, thin lips pulling over crooked teeth.  

 

“If there’s a bright center of the universe, you’re the farthest from it.”  He chuckled. “Mordor, Tartarus, The Devil’s Anus … take your pick what you want to call it.” 

 

Clint groaned as he tried to move then took stock of his situation; the beating had been perfunctory, not even twenty minutes of bare-knuckles punches to his stomach and torso. Strangely enough, they avoided his face and that, out of everything, worried him the most. He’d had far too much experience with torture and this was definitely not how to get someone to talk.

 

“How long?”  The cobwebs clung to his thoughts, slowing his brain down to a sluggish crawl.  

 

“Six hours, give or take, since they dragged you in here.”  The guy moved and Clint got a look at him; wearing only a pair of red spandex pants, the man was all sinew and muscle, every inch of exposed skin covered in the same pattern as his face and head. “I’m honored, really; not often I get to hang with a world famous author.  God, I love your books. Beat the meat to Charles Brandon every now and then; that scene in  _ The Last Book of Prayers _ ? Jeez, that’s freakin’ hot.” 

 

“Um, thanks?”  Clint tested the cuffs that held his wrists tight. “You wouldn’t have a key, would you? Can’t feel my fingers..” 

 

“No can do; see this?”  He pointed to a small metal disk that was embedded in the side of his neck; tiny spikes bit into his skin and a thin silver chain looped around his neck, connected at beginning and end to the disk.  “Much as I like getting spanked, they’ve got my number. They can shock my ass and turn off my mutant abilities when they fire it up. Pretty much the only reason I’ve haven’t burned this hell hole down yet.” 

 

Something pinged in his memory, but Clint couldn’t nail down what.  All he could remember was Bobbi saying she was sorry right before they took him down.  She’d sold him out; he wished he could dredge up more surprise at that twist but he couldn’t. Bobbi lived by the mantra to trust no one; Clint had hoped he was one of the exceptions after everything they’d been through, but he’d been a bit of a dick during the divorce so there’d always been a 50/50 chance she’d kick him to the curb, at least partially.  

 

“Pretty pissed about you being here though,” the guy kept talking. “I was looking forward to that new series, the one about the circus. Tell me it had acrobats and clowns. Dead clowns preferably because they’re creepy as fuck. And some twisted sexual perversions with freaks like me.”

 

The door opened and two men came in; from the span of their shoulders and their dark jeans with black shirts, they were clearly thugs, the muscle to the woman who followed them into the room.  Despite being petite, very round and dressed in a hideously clashing pair of floral pants and long kaftan top, she was obviously the one in charge if the way the guys sidestepped and let her through was any indication.  

 

“Hey, it’s Yzma, The Emperor’s Advisor, a.k.a. Big Dickus around here!  How’s it hanging, babe?” The guy waved then leaned towards Clint to give a loud stage whisper. “She pees standing up, trust me on this one.” 

 

He lurched back, a halo of yellow and green dancing along his skin as the device at his neck glowed, body jerking like a marionette on strings. A smell of ozone hit Clint’s nose as the electricity stopped and the guy took a deep breath.

 

“God damn, but I love the smell of napalm in the morning,” he crowed.  “Clears out the sinuses, don’t it?”

 

She hit him again with another jolt; he fell on the floor as the fit seized him.  

 

“Jesus, stop it,” Clint said. “You’re killing him.”  

 

“Oh, no worry; he can’t die.”  She let up on the device she was holding; he groaned and pushed up. “That’s what makes him so valuable in the arena. I can lose and still win.”

 

The guy spit blood on the floor. “At least until I get the panic button off and kick her ass five ways from Sunday.”

 

“Don’t pay Wade any mind, Mr. Barton. He is well and truly fucked and he knows it.  No one will miss him. You, on the other hand, are a different story,” she said.

 

“Won’t last a day in the cage despite those hold-me-down-and-fuck-me-biceps. Gotta have the center ring showmanship like me, be able to hit your mark for the audience.” Damn idiot winked at him and grinned with bloody teeth. “She’s putting you up for sale to the highest bidder on eBay.”

 

“What the fuck?”  Clint tried to make sense of the words, but the drugs were playing havoc with his thought processes. The niggle grew to a tug and he suddenly remembered where he’d heard the guy’s name before.  “Oh, hell no.” 

 

“It is a tragedy, I agree. I’m a big fan of your work.”  The woman nodded to the two men; they loosed his bonds and yanked Clint to his feet.  “But you did bring this on yourself; writer or not, you stuck your nose into the wrong honey pot.” 

 

“Hey, if he’s Winnie the Pooh, I get to be Tigger!”  Wade began to bounce, flailing his arms and spinning around. “The wonderful thing about Tiggers is that Tiggers are wonderful things! Their heads are made of da’ rubber; their bottoms are made of da’ spring!”  

 

The electricity jolted Wade off balance; he fell against Clint, knocking them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs. 

 

“Play dumb,” he whispered into Clint’s ear. “Then get me the hell out of here.” 

 

They dragged Wade off and locked him into a set of manacles attached to the far wall. 

 

“I just want you to know my safe word is Francis,” Wade told them, a manic grin on his face. “Turn-ons are spanking and pegging; turn-offs are water sports and sadistic bitches who are going to get their comeuppance.” 

 

“Asshole.” One of the thugs muttered as he helped hoist Clint up again. “Should just turn it off and let him waste away.  Cancer’s too good a way to die for him.” 

 

“I’m bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, fun, fun, fun, fun, fun!” Wade sang as they dragged Clint out of the room. “The wonderful thing about Tiggers is I’m the only one!” 

 

Wade’s voice disappeared as the door swung shut; Clint got his feet under him and walked on the cold tile.  Overhead, electric lights buzzed behind opaque plastic, the walls painted an off-white, doors plain grey, some with simple locks, others with digital screens mounted by the frame.  He could be anywhere, in the same city or halfway around the world, but he’d put money on being out of the U.S. It would be a lot easier to run an illegal fight club with mutants and supers in other countries where regimes not only looked the other way but were in bed with the various villains. He’d heard rumors of one such ring that ran out of Pakistan, up near the Afghanistan border. It was far too easy for shadows to fall off the grid, never be heard from again, and even mercs-for-hire were vulnerable  For all the talk of regulating people with abilities, helping them, guiding them, protecting them from those who’d use them for the wrong purposes, registration had only made it easier to find them. Hell, he’d been in the raft and knew what a S.H.I.E.L.D. prison was like; at least H.Y.D.R.A. was upfront about riding your ass for their own profit. 

 

They tossed him in a chair in a different room, this one with a big screen on one wall; they even unlocked his wrists after tying his ankles to the legs.  A plastic cup full of water was placed in one shaky hand, a small pastry in the other. 

 

“Eat,” one of the thugs said.

 

The woman busied herself with a laptop, humming under her breath as she typed; Clint tried to focus on what she was doing, but her back was to him, blocking the view.  So he bit into the soft flaky bread and was rewarded with some sort of spicy meat filling. 

 

“Esme, darling.”  The woman’s face filled the screen; dark brown skin and curled hair. “You best be telling the truth, you know.  I haven’t forgotten what happened with the last lot.” 

 

His breath froze in his chest; he was looking right at one of the most dangerous women in the world. Madame Masque was well-known in all the wrong circles and currently at number fourteen on Interpol’s most wanted list.  If they knew her penchant for bathing in fresh blood and ‘training’ children, she’d be ranked higher. 

 

“See for yourself.”  Esme, the bitch running this sideshow, stepped back; an inset window popped open and Clint saw himself projected on the screen. “He’s taking his medicine now, aren’t you dear?” 

 

The thug grabbed his hair and yanked his head back; pills were shoved in his mouth as he opened it to protest.  He dry swallowed, turned away from the cup that was forced towards his lips, his head reeling as he almost toppled out of the chair. 

 

“You always give them too much,” Madame Masque said. “The last one I bought took over twelve hours to be able to scream. Compliance is one thing, but I’m not buying a drooling imbecile. I pay good money for fear, Esme; I expect them to be able to feel it.”

 

“Pain is your predilection, not mine; if you didn’t read the instructions on waiting, that’s your problem.  And don’t assume you’re going to win the bid.” Esme stepped back in front of the camera. “There  _ are _ other interested parties. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to begin.” 

 

“Don’t you …”  

 

The image reduced as Esme muted the call.  “Entirely too sure of herself,” she said to no one in particular. “Her pockets aren’t deep enough for this one. Now him, on the other hand ...” 

 

“You have the merchandise prepared?”  The man’s face appeared and Clint only just stopped himself from recoiling at the sight.  “Could we move this along? I'm a busy man.” 

 

Aldrich Killian was a psychopathic genius who had no compunction about testing virulent viruses by releasing them in an orphanage and injecting deadly serums in homeless people.  He’d sell his mother to get what he wanted and had, actually, killed her by blowing up her home when he was twelve. Since the Extremis debacle five years ago, even H.Y.D.R.A. wouldn’t work with him, his ego far too big to take orders from anyone else. Last Clint had heard, Killian was off the grid, working on some new world-ending project; Stark had been looking for him and even offered a reward to info that led to Killian’s lab.  There was only one reason Killian would be interested in Esme’s auction; he had a new formula and needed a way to weaponize it like he did Extremis … by infecting a human carrier. 

 

“We’re all busy,” Esme replied, the sneer evident in her voice.  “Wait your turn.” She closed the window completely. “God, I hate that bastard but his payment’s always on time.”

 

One by one, she spoke to what was an honor roll of amoral villains, some of whom Clint recognized right off; the knot in his stomach grew into a band of growing panic that choked off his air supply.  These weren’t the average garden variety H.Y.D.R.A. leaders or big-name bad guys, they were the real-life versions of evil, predators and sociopaths that played the game their own ways, outside the law, registration, and government control.  He’d dipped his toe in these dark waters a few times, taken a couple of contracts that challenged his own chaotic nature and even took down some of the lower hanging fruit. Despite their willingness to hurt others for their own gain, Zemo or Von Doom or M.O.D.O.K. lived by a set of rules, albeit fucked up ones. These people? They tortured for fun, were willing to burn the world down just because they wanted to. They were the real heart of darkness. 

 

And they were all gazing back at him. As one after the other got a look at the merchandise, Clint squirmed in the chair, his flight or fight instinct kicking in.  The longer it took to get everyone logged into the online chat room, the more the pills kicked in. He tried to settle, hoping against hope for some moment to make a break for it. 

 

“Shall we begin? Opening bid is one even.”  

 

The numbers popped up in a ticker on the side of the screen, the rest split between Esme’s face and Clint slumped in his chair.  He watched her deftly run the auction, responding to questions by typing as well as speaking to the various bidders.

 

“Indeed he is, El Jefe.  Depending upon your largesse, he could continue to write, under your control of course.”  Esme smiled. “The bid stands at 4.1 from the lady in Bangkok; remember, you’re buying the name as much as the body. An internationally famous author … yes, that’s lovely.  4.7, anyone?” 

 

He might land one punch, get a moment of distraction to ...

 

“5.2, thank you.  Anyone want to … 5.9.  Do I have 6?” 

 

Some twisted part of his ego was stroked by the rising total; too bad Clint Barton the writer wasn’t as big a smartass as Hawkeye or he’d have some quip ready by now.  Not that he could string words together when the room was spinning. 

 

“6.5. Thank you, El Jefe.  Other bids?” she paused, watching the feed. “6.5 going once, going twice, going … Oh. 8 million!  What a generous offer. Do I have any others? Well, then Going once, going twice, sold to the Doyen of the Hellfire Club.”

 

God damn it all; Clint was in so much trouble. The Hellfire Club?  If they found out who he really was ..

 

“Once again, thank you all for participating; you’ll be notified of the date and time for our next lot.”  The screen went dark. “Haul him down to the delivery room, boys. A car will be waiting; soon as the funds clear the bank, toss him in.”  

 

“Sadistic fucker,” Clint spat out. “You can’t do this; I’m an American citizen …”

 

“Oh, sweet child, you have no idea what I can do.”  Esme’s mask of normality slipped and Clint saw the crazy lurking behind the dark brown irises. “You think your government will help you?  They’re too busy funding my operation and buying what I offer.” 

 

“It was just a file.” Clint struggled as they dragged him towards the door. “Pym’s dead. Why?” 

 

“This isn’t one of your mysteries, my dear; no one’s going to confess.” She smiled. “I’d say good luck, but your luck is over.” 

 

He tried, he really did, but his elbows wouldn’t bend and he couldn’t make his legs hold his weight.  So he shouted obscenities at the thugs, curses echoing down the hallway and inside the elevator, but only managed to twist one arm around and stub his toe on the gap as they exited.  The disorientation was getting worse … fuckers must have dosed the water too .. and he was going to end up being some dominatrix’s plaything before he got his brains shoved back in his skull.  Of all the ways he thought he’d go, the center attraction at the Hellfire Club was pretty low on the list. 

 

A blast of cold air hit him and goosebumps rose as they exited onto a loading dock. A black limousine waited at the end of five concrete steps, the back door opening as they approached.  Inside, Clint caught a glimpse of white leather pants, bottle bleach blonde hair then he was unceremoniously shoved inside, crumpling on the floor, his face crushed into the carpet by the white stiletto heeled boots, ass in the air.  

 

“Get up,” she said, nudging him none too gently with a pointy toe. “And sit on the towel, please. I won’t have you throwing up and spoiling the upholstery.” 

 

It took far longer than he’d like to admit before he was upright; once he rolled over, he slid up on his elbows then flopped over onto the seat.  He knew her, had crossed paths with her twice in the past. Once, she beat him to some scientist’s data; she’d left the doctor dead and the lab in shambles before Clint got there. The second time, he’d give her a parting gift, a scar above her hip bone where his sword got through her defenses.  Emma Frost, proprietor of the Hellfire Club and literal diamond when she wanted to be, was not a woman to be trifled with. 

 

“Gah.”  Clint mentally banged his head in frustration. “Who are … why are …”

 

“Obviously you’re a better writer than speaker.”  She caught his chin, stared in his eyes. “They’ve drugged you to the gills; good. Esme might be certifiable, but she does manage to find the best prizes.”

 

“I’m an American … can’t do this …” Maybe, just maybe she could be reasoned with.  “People will miss me. My agent’s expecting a call …” 

 

“Yes, I imagine there are any number who’d wonder why you stopped writing.  If it were up to me, I’d go with the plane crash story. Works every time.” She dropped her hand. “I bet you’re asking just how you managed to tumble down this rabbit hole, aren’t you?  Your little hook-up Morse? Do you even know what she is?” 

 

“She a data analyst for server farm,”  he said. At least that was the story he was sticking with.  “All I was looking for was old docs on Hank Pym. For the second book.” 

 

“Data Analyst, that’s what she’s calling herself? Woman would do anything for the right price even sell out her friends,” Frost said. 

 

“You’re H.Y.D.R.A.”  Ronin already knew that wasn’t true, but Clint the writer didn’t. “Look, I’m all for showing both sides; we could arrange an interview and I’ll write a sympathetic character into the story…”

 

“Oh, that’s precious.” She patted his knee.  “We are hell and gone from H.Y.D.R.A., Mr. Barton. Welcome to the Remnants, the flotsam and jetsam of the world, where all those who don’t fit end up. It’s a terrifying place.” 

 

“Do you have cookies?”  Clint might as well be a smartass; looked like he was about to be ridden like one.  “I like cookies.” 

 

She laughed, a tinkling sound like rubbing a wet finger on a half-full glass. “Oh, my, that explains it. Handsome, smart, and you’ve got a mouth on you. Nice to know what his type is after all this time. That bit of information is almost worth the price.” 

 

He almost missed it and had to pull his brain back onto course when the pronoun sank in.  “His type?” 

 

“Called in all his favors; you must be one hell of a ride in the sack.”  She took a bottle of bourbon out of a metal rack and poured a finger into a crystal tumbler.  “Or completely submissive. I’ve heard rumors of his handiwork with the whip.” 

 

Her lips pursed around the -wh sound then popped on the p, a glint in her eye as she looked at Clint’s chest. 

 

“If I tell you, will you let me go?”  Clint would lie his ass off to get out of this situation. “What he likes.” 

 

“No.” She added some ice cubes. “He’s not a man I want to piss off and I don’t care what happens to you enough to bother.  If he wants you, he’ll get you as advertised.” 

 

A powerful man, someone Emma Frost was afraid of?  Maybe Magneto? Could be a stone cold dom but the man had been married and had Wanda and Pietro to show for it.  He was more of a mutant rights guy anyway, pretty much out in the open. Maybe Osborne? Daddy or son? They were both pieces of work.  Definitely not Stark; he hated Frosty, as he called her, with the passion of a thousand suns, plus Clint was very aware of Stark’s bedroom preferences, none of which included sadism.  

 

The car slowed and Clint realized he’d drifted off in a haze of speculation. They came to a halt on a tarmac by a twin-engine Jetstream. 

 

“Fuck.”  Frost cursed before the door opened; a big man bent over and peered inside. “Skurge.”

 

The Executioner, that’s what the Asgardian was called. A hulking man with a shaved tattooed head, he’d been exiled by Odin and come to Earth, a chip on his shoulder the size of New Jersey. To those who could afford to pay his going rate, he was intimidating and lethal. Clint had always heard Skurge had his own strange sense of loyalty and honor; if he believed in a cause, he’d fight to the death.

 

“Emma.”  Skurge glared then reached in and grabbed Clint by the arms. “He wants the numbers by tonight.”

 

She frowned, her brows drawing together.  “I’ll update him on the flight.” 

 

“No.”  The word was clipped and short. “His orders are clear; in writing, tonight.” 

 

“I’m not a fucking accountant.”  Emma bristled, a glittering hue sliding along her skin. “I know he’s hiding things.” 

 

“That’s what he does.”  Skurge shrugged. “He’s a spy.”

 

Clint was too busy putting two and two together to be embarrassed as Skurge manhandled him into the plane, dropping him in a seat before leaving.  The door shut; alone in the cabin, Clint closed his eyes; as the plane began to taxi, he held his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Sure enough, once they leveled off, the door at the back of the plane clicked open and Nicholas J. Fury stalked up to him, complete with his eye patch and black leather coat swishing around his booted ankles. 

 

“Clinton Francis Barton,” he said, staring down at Clint. “In trouble again, I see.” 

 

Clint blinked a few times. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m an American writer who’s been taken prisoner against my will …” 

 

“Oh, please. You got caught with your hand in the wrong cookie jar.”  Fury opened a mini-fridge and took out two bottles of water. Twisting off the cap, he offered one to Clint before opening the other for himself. “And don’t give me that ‘just a writer’ bullshit.  You’re into this up to your eyeballs, Hawkeye, and there’s no talking your way out of it.” 

 

Thirst won out and he took the drink “I’m not …”  

 

“Searching for a link between Alexander Pierce and the assassination attempt on Wilson Fisk?”  Fury tapped the wall and a screen projected in the air with data and photos, Pierce and Bullseye sitting at a kitchen table. “Nice shot, by the way, taking out the cable. And you cleaned up after yourself in Oak Ridge.  I do like an asset who doesn’t leave loose ends. That’s why you’re alive right now rather than wearing concrete galoshes at the bottom of the river.” 

 

Clint almost choked as an image of Bullseye’s body came up, pennies still on his eyes. “Galoshes? Seriously?  Concrete overshoes, maybe, but galoshes?” 

 

“Sue me, I’m old-fashioned.”  Fury grinned and it was a terrifying thing to behold. “Pretty decent plan overall, using the ex-wife to get into the system; only problem was thinking you were going after H.Y.D.R.A. Going to have to open your eyes if you’re going to be of any use to me.” 

 

“You’re recruiting me?”  Clint gave up the pretense, too surprised by the turn of events. “For what? The new Howling Commandos? Don’t think that’s your cup of tea anymore, the team of heroes.” 

 

“No such thing as a good guy,” Fury countered. “ What’s the line?  Anyone who tells you differently is selling something, but you already know that.  I used to think Pierce was the real deal, an honest man; now I know everyone’s got their price.” 

 

A thought of Phil flitted across Clint’s mind. “We’ll agree to disagree on that one.” 

 

“Ah, I see.  You think I don’t know about your little connection with Grey Force?  We both know he’s already crossed the line for you more than once, Barton.”  Fury sat down in the opposite chair and buckled in. “Been looking for a hook to reel him in and here you come, falling right into my lap.” 

 

The plane banked and in short order the landing gear touched down; they rolled to a stop by a different hanger. 

 

“We circled the airport?”  Clint glanced out the window. “What the fuck is going on?” 

 

“I’m doing a favor for an old friend.” Fury was up and opening the door, extending the stairs. “Out of the goodness of my heart, right, Cheese?” 

 

“You don’t have a heart.”  Phil offered his hand; Fury took something from it. “Had it surgically removed because it gave you heartburn.” 

 

Fury chuckled and tucked the USB drive into his pocket.  “Nah, pretty sure that was Dugan’s cooking.”

 

Phil looked at Clint. “You okay?” 

 

“Flying high the good stuff, but, yeah.”  Clint tried to stand but his legs wouldn’t cooperate; Phil caught him under the arm and helped him walk to the exit.  “You shouldn’t have come.” 

 

“Marcus owed me one,” Phil explained.  “Isn’t that right, Nick?” 

 

“You saved my life; that means something.”  Fury watched as they negotiated the steps, Clint holding onto the railing. “Least I could do is waylay your boyfriend from his terrible fate.”

 

“He wants to recruit me,” Clint said. “You too.” 

 

“Yeah, I know; been after me for years.” Phil glanced over his shoulder. “I keep turning him down, but he won’t give up.” 

 

“Pretty sure you’re going to say yes real soon,” Fury said as Clint slid into the passenger seat of the small Jeep. “Watch your back, Phil. Barton’s name is out there and you’re linked to him.  Won’t be long before you’re both in the crosshairs for real.” 

 

“Yours or theirs?”  Phil asked. 

 

“Everyone’s,” Fury answered. 

 

Only when they’d exited the airport and were on the road into Georgetown, Guyana, did Clint sigh and begin to relax.  

 

“Tell me you got the data,” he asked. 

 

“We’re in the system, have access to everything.”  Phil laid his hand on Clint’s leg, warmth from his palm seeping into Clint’s body.  “Natasha’s sorting through it. You won’t believe how deep H.Y.D.R.A. is in S.H.I.E.L.D.  The whole Fast Strike Team’s rotten and then there’s Project Insight. Pre-emptive strike capabilities, Clint. They’re targeting potential powers, kids, anyone who could be a threat. That’s what Fisk knew; he’d pieced things together from some contracts with military industries.” 

 

“Good.”  Clint slipped his hand under Phil’s, wound their fingers together.  “That should convince a few people.”

 

“I should have seen it, Clint; to hell with inhibitors and staying within the rules, if I’d turned my power up to full strength I’d have realized Morse wasn’t H.Y.D.R.A. I was too busy seeing Pierce as the villain that I missed the forest for the trees.” 

 

“Knew it was a risk going in that Bobbi would sell me out, but the whole bait-and-switch tap was brilliant. They thought I was after info on Pym for the book, had no clue the real bug was in Bobbi’s drink.” Clint squeezed gently. 

 

“When I heard you go down, and I couldn’t get there fast enough …” Phil’s voice caught the tiniest bit. “Soon as I uncapped my power, I knew what had happened. The tendrils go so deep, Clint; the whole damn system is infested, decaying from the inside out.” 

 

“Yeah, that auction was …” Clint shivered. “Ending up getting fucked by a machine in the Hellfire Club was one of the better options.” 

 

“Could you find …” Phil turned the car into a garage, swiping a card to get them into a private area. 

 

“Hell yes, I’m going back, get all the info on those evil motherfuckers. It wasn’t just human slavery, there was a cage arena; they’ve got Deadpool shackled and fighting for them. Gonna burn the whole place down.” Clint turned his gaze on Phil.  “You should go home; you’ve done enough for me already. Fury’s got your number, Phil. He’ll use me to get you to do what he wants. We should go our separate ways, let me handle this.” 

 

Phil pulled into a spot and turned off the engine. “No,” he said. “I gave up on things I wanted when I signed the accords, accepted the limits they put on me; I thought it was the right thing to do, that I could make the world safer. I’m not making that mistake again, and I’m not walking away.” 

 

“Phil, don’t do this for me. I’m not worth throwing away your life.” 

 

And there it was, the truth, unvarnished and stripped to its most painful.  Clint had crashed into Phil’s life and dragged his burning baggage with him, setting fires and destroying Phil’s career.  Maybe Bobbi had been right all along; he was a tire fire of a human being. 

 

“I made a promise to use my powers for good, no matter how cheesy that sounds, and I’m damn well not going to let Pierce or H.Y.D.R.A. or whoever is behind this win without a fight. That’s why I’m doing it.” The edges of Phil’s lips turned up ever so slightly. “And, yes, maybe part of it is because I want to be with you. I can be honest with myself; you are absolutely worth the risk, Clint. I want you at my side.” 

 

Clint surged forward, closing the distance between them, catching Phil in a bruising kiss. There was nothing soft about the way he pressed their lips together, in fact there was the slightest edge of desperation, a need born out of the fear he’d been carrying through the last hours and his own deep seated lack of self-worth.  He wanted to believe Phil meant every word, that here was someone who was going to take Clint as he was, not as he wanted him to be. Someone who wanted him not just in bed or on the battlefield, but in all his torn and broken pieces. 

 

Someone good and strong and worth finally taking the leap to trust him with Clint’s life. 

 

When he pulled back, Phil’s pupils were dilated and his breathing shallow. “Upstairs,” Phil said. “A safe house. We should …” 

 

“Yeah, we should,” Clint agreed.  He fumbled with the handle, got the door open, then tried to get out; the world spun and he almost tumbled ass over heels before he got his equilibrium back. He leaned against the side of the car and breathed through the nausea that followed. 

 

“Hey.”  Phil slipped an arm around Clint’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s get some food on your stomach. That’ll help.” 

 

“So much for seduction,” Clint complained. “Here I thought we were headed to bed.” 

 

“Don’t think you can consent right now,” Phil told him. “Besides this is our, what, third date?”

 

“I’ve kissed you five, no, six times, but who’s counting?”  Clint replied. 

 

They took a private elevator up to the fifth-floor apartment with views of the ocean; it was small but had everything they needed including a filled refrigerator.  Phil left him on a stool while he poured a glass of orange juice, and Clint noticed his hands shaking when he went to pick it up. 

 

“Are we safe here?”  Clint after he drank half in one long swallow. 

 

“Nick could find us if he wants to but everyone else thinks you left the island.”  He took out a loaf of french bread, sliced it open and began layering fillings he found in the fridge -- curried chicken, slaw, cheese, and mustard.  “We’ve got about 24 hours before we have to move; if the operation is making money, they’ll keep things status quo. If you’re up to it, you should probably tell me what the details before you crash.” 

 

He cut the sandwich in half, put each on a plate, added some star apples, and carried them over to the coffee table Digging out a laptop from a case Clint hadn’t seen him bring up from the car, he booted it up then patted the cushions next to where he sat down.

 

“Yeah. Good idea.”  Clint made it from the stool to the couch and slumped down next to Phil.  “Let’s start with the assholes at the auction. Madame Masque first …” 

 

He named all the ones he could then began describing the others, their screen names, how much they bid, the nicknames Esme used, starting with El Jefe. 

 

“Vargas.” Phil swore. “I thought Gambit killed him.” 

 

Then Clint described the loading dock and the layout of the building, the device on Wade’s neck, every little detail he could dredge up from his drug-addled brain. Somewhere after they moved on to satellite imagery and camera footage, looking for Frost’s limousine to backtrack the location where he was held, Clint dozed off, his head slipping over to lean on Phil’s shoulder.  Twice he surfaced, looked at the screen then went back to sleep, too tired to do more than mumble indistinct words into the drool spot on Phil’s shirt. The third time, it was dark outside; he rolled to stretch the crick in his neck then noticed that Phil’s eyes were closed and his fingers lax on the keyboard. 

 

“Hey.”  He nudged Phil; eyelids fluttered and Phil looked confused. “Bed. Sleep. We both need it. Come on.” 

 

Shuffling into the bedroom, Clint turned down the sheets then beelined to the bathroom to relieve himself. By the time he got back, Phil was already under the covers, phone and glasses on the nightstand.

 

“Can’t stay long,” Phil muttered. “Too much to do.” 

 

“Whatever.”  Clint slid in, invaded Phil’s space, and wrapped himself around Phil, feet tangling together and his arm crossing Phil’s chest.  He kissed the divot under Phil’s earlobe, added another to his jawline, then nuzzled his nose into the crook of Phil’s neck and closed his eyes. “You’re warm.” 

 

“Uh Huh.” Phil’s arm pulled Clint in tighter. “Go to sleep, Clint.” 

 

So Clint did. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Hot damn!” Wade bounced on the balls of his feet as Clint entered the room, bow drawn and arrow at the ready.  “My hero, here to save the day!”

 

“Hold still.”  Clint ran the super magnet over the disc in Wade’s neck; the metal prongs retracted and it came off easily.  “Here, never say I didn’t give you anything.” 

 

Wade threw his arms around Clint and kissed him with a loud smacking sound right on the lips.  “Please tell me you left the bitch for me to kill? Hey, can I borrow one of your exploding arrows? If I shove it up her ass ....”

 

“She’s all trussed up just down the hall, but my partner’s going to blow this pop stand in five …” Clint checked his counter “... four minutes and 42 seconds. Might want to hurry.” 

 

“I’m going to dance at your wedding! Well, I’ll pretend to, since I can’t dance, but it’ll be fun.  Have some beers, get drunk, cry over never getting to tap that ass of yours …” Wade waved at him from the doorway.  “Owe you one, Hawkguy. I’ll take a signed copy of the Brandon series along with Henry Cavill’s number.”

 

“Who the fuck is Henry Cavill?” Clint called after him. 

 

“Never mind, Cupid babe. See ya!” 

 

Clint made his way out of the building, stepping over dead bodies and adding one more C4 package by the outer door, just to make sure. Climbing over the fence, he sprinted toward the corpse of trees where they’d left the car.  

 

“You set him free?” Phil asked, backing out and driving down the road with no security cameras. 

 

“I’ll probably regret it later,” Clint said. “He’s not exactly mentally stable, but no one deserves what they were doing to him.” 

 

“He’s a wild card, that’s for sure.  S.H.I.E.L.D. has a permanent capture order out for him.”  Phil gazed in the rearview mirror. “At least with a merc like him, you know where he stands -- wherever the money is the best.” 

 

At a sedate pace, they turned onto a rutted track and headed inland towards a small airstrip where a plane waited.  The seconds counted down until an explosion rattled the car, a burst of orange flame blasting upwards in the rearview mirror.  

 

“The farthest from the center of the universe,” Clint said as he watched the sparks fly. 

 

Phil glanced over at him.  “Tatooine. Good analogy.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Told you he’d blow up the place,” she said. “Clint never does things halfway.” 

 

Nick Fury’s eye flicked to the small window that was live streaming local news; fire trucks converged around the blaze, hoses spraying water on the conflagration.  

 

“That’s one less problem we have to deal with,” he replied. “Unfortunately, there’s no time to rest on our laurels; I need you to allay Alexander’s suspicious, feed him the information we want him to have.  Barton and Rogers have pushed the agenda, sped things up. We’re moving into phase three sooner than planned.” 

 

Bobbi Morse nodded as she took the USB drive Fury held out. “I’ll bury it deep enough to not be suspicious but easy enough to not take long to find.” 

 

“Make so Pierce needs help to dig it out, someone with powers,” Fury said. 

 

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask why.  “And Barton? He might come looking for me.” 

 

“He won’t.” Fury smiled. “He’s going to be too busy to worry about his ex-wife. I’ll see to that.”  

 


End file.
